


Christmas Advent Musings

by BakerTumblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Complete as it’s going to get, Fluff, M/M, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-01 08:28:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16761592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: Mostly disconnected, mostly series compatible, short bits of fluff and feels.I never tried one of these before, and already know I'm not going to be able to do every day, but hey, Christmas is coming and I thought this might be a fun way to count down...





	1. Holiday Decor

Rosie's first Christmas eve dawned overcast, cold, breezy. Gray.

Just like John's morose mood so much of the past weeks, it seemed. Fitting.

A brutal year: He'd buried a wife, lost a job ("So sorry, John, but it's just not working out, the patients are complaining, and ..."), had to move out of his flat ("So sorry, John, but you're so behind on your rent, and ..."), come crawling back to Sherlock. Who'd had a rough year too - the flat explosion, his sister's trauma, a relapse - though he seemed much more in control as of late.

Rosie's cot, his twin bed, a box of memories, and some memorabilia all resided in the upstairs bedroom. Now and again, Sherlock would reach out, hand him a lousy mug of tea, offer to bring him along on an investigation though active crime scenes of course, with Rosie, were right out. He would always shake his head, kind of sadly, a benign excuse on his lips. Sometimes Sherlock didn't ask, other times, he would go out on his own and, when he returned, he would pull out the violin, serenade them both, or only John if Rosie was already asleep. It was soothing sometimes when words just wouldn't do.

Mrs. Hudson, too, now and again tried to press him, draw him out, and when Christmas approached, she upped her game with him. "Surely John, you can't deny Rosie this. Not this time of year. Think how much she'll enjoy it!" Mrs. Hudson stood, hands on her hips, holding a small, fairy lighted fake tree. Rosie herself was the one who decided, clapping her hands when Mrs. Hudson plugged it in. "There," she mused. "It's settled." She located a wreath, a bit tired but brightly coloured none-the-less, hung it on a hook over their door.

The tree had found its home on the small end table, mostly out of Rosie's reach, and from somewhere Sherlock handed their landlady a small box of Christmas decorations. They'd decorated it, Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, with the few sparse ornaments, trinkets, and John really didn't pay much attention to it, though Rosie pointed to it, stared at it, was drawn to it, and was fascinated by it.

And now, on Christmas Eve, before Rosie had even awakened, John found himself with his own tea, thank you very much, and already he realised that he has sighed no fewer than nineteen times since getting out of bed (why on earth has he bothered to notice, he wondered, thinking Sherlock has rubbed off on him in strange ways) and something on the tree caught his eye.

It was an ornament. A baby's first Christmas ornament. The holiday decoration had obviously been hand assembled, a custom request given what John saw. It had to be, and it was obviously Sherlock's doing. He reached out a finger, spun it lightly from the branch on which it hung to see it from all sides. A fullness in his chest made swallowing the tea difficult, and eventually John rose to stand at the window, seeing but not seeing, thinking but not thinking.

Reminiscing.

"Are you quite all right?"

Sherlock's low question startled him just a little, a gentle tone, a kindly spoken low keyed testing of the waters. John turned, surprised a little to find Sherlock standing close, and he tipped his head toward the tree. "I found the ornament."

There was no need to specify, given John's melancholy and Sherlock's obvious knowledge of what was there. "Oh."

The ornament was a small photo of John and Rosie inside a handcrafted frame. Around the picture were a few things special to them all, specifically to John and Sherlock - a cane across the lower border, a caricature of a cute bumble bee, a magnifying lens, a toy rattle, the corner of a stringed instrument, a hand drawn sweater remarkably similar to one in John's closet, a mug of steaming tea. There was a fleur de lis shape in exact colours of the wallpaper, a small buffalo wearing earbuds, a tiny door placard with 221b painted inside. The photo itself, sweet and tender, their two faces close, him smiling pleasantly, genuinely at her, more life visible in the photo than he was currently feeling. "It's ..." When his voice trailed off, emotion swirled around them, the insight, the deduction to things that were uniquely them, the interesting combination of their lives, of what worked for them. Their histories.

"I know," Sherlock whispered, and slowly and without apology, he offered all that he could, all that he had, his arms spread slightly, an open invitation. Slowly, John moved, melted in his direction. Silently, Sherlock very slightly pressed his body up against John's, warm arms coming around him slowly, comfortingly. It was camaraderie and belonging and right. With each breath from within the safety of Sherlock's arms, John could feel the tension leaving, his muscles relaxing, the stiffness and coolness dissolving and dissipating and ... gone. An exhale, a feeling of Sherlock's breath against his temple, and his eyes closed.

"It's missing something," John finally said, turning his head just a little, inhaling the scent from Sherlock's collar, the vee of his shirt. The embrace settled as they relaxed a bit with each other, the newness and foreign feelings settling as each became more aware of the other.

Their heads align as, from different heights, they looked at the tree. At the ornament and photo. "Surely you didn't want a Baskerville hound, or a riding crop, or a pair of handcuffs." He tried not to smile, failed, both of them ending up with a short, poignant giggle. "Missing what exactly? The frame has no more room."

"No, I meant from the photo." John turned his face to see Sherlock's pale, curious eyes staring back down at him. "You're missing. You should be in that. With us."

"I am here, with you. Home." John could feel and hear and sense that Sherlock's arms tightened a little, and there was the sensation of muscles shifting, of settling, and Sherlock growing more bold. "Which is much more important."

"And fixable. Mrs. Hudson can ..."

They were interrupted by the faint cry of an awakening baby. Sounds trickled down from upstairs, and they listened as she made a few noises and then started to complain. Sherlock loosened his arms then, but John did not step away immediately. "She's okay a moment, and," he raised a hand to touch at Sherlock's jaw, drawing him down, down, nearer to him while he pressed up, up, closer until their lips met softly, tentatively. A quick swipe of a tongue, an angle that allowed more access, and there was an involuntary moan from somewhere central in his chest as he deepened the kiss just before he then pulled back. "I should ..." and his shoulders shrugged toward the steps.

Sherlock was still standing there, rooted, when John returned a few minutes later with a freshly-nappied, blanket wrapped baby, and he retook his place close to Sherlock, leaning them both against Sherlock's chest, the warmth between them individually meeting and rising.

Sherlock whispered a good morning to Rosie, his hand ruffling at her curls. The trio stood close, sharing body heat and friendship and the sweetness of a new day ahead of them. Rosie chortled, patted at John, at Sherlock's nose, then pointed animatedly at the tree, twisting excitedly to see the lights.

John smiled, enjoying their proximity, feeling more hopeful than he had in a long time. "It's beautiful, that ornament, you know." He pressed his lips against Sherlock's once more, a promise of better days ahead and more. "Thank you."


	2. Star-Gazing

"You know, when I was a boy I wanted to be a pirate."

John can't hear the response from the kitchen, where he is making biscuit dough, Mrs. Hudson's recipe. They are doing a bit of Christmas baking later. Sherlock and Rosie are working on a puzzle - an outdoor night sky full of stars - and talking.

Sherlock continued. "Was going to have my own crew, my own ship. Uncle Mycroft was going to work the galley." Atypical, surprising, outright giggling and Rosie joined in. "I had it all planned. I even already had my own spyglass, my navigation scope, and maps so I could watch the stars and use them to guide the ship." Rosie asked a question, and Sherlock explained, "Spyglass. It's a single lens telescope, you know, like this," and there was something in Sherlock's voice, a catch, a burst of hidden sentiment, and he paused in his endeavors to go see for himself.

Sherlock was indeed speaking animatedly with Rosie, who at seven was a curious child with a sense of adventure. His face was an odd mixture of fond memories and surprise at his own emotion, and as soon as he saw John he changed, sat taller, pressed down each thing he'd accidentally let show. Rosie, however, asked a few more questions about the spyglass, what it had looked like, what happened to it, does it make the stars look bigger and could she see into the windows of the flat across the street perhaps.

Later, as the decorated, baked biscuits cooled on the racks, John recalled his words, "Had to get rid of it, sold it to buy supplies in university, it was antique brass. Absolutely stunning," he'd said. A few texts exchanged with Mycroft, a bit of careful searching on some antique items for sale, and John knew exactly what he wanted to find to put under the tree for Sherlock.

++

"What is this?"

"Funny thing, that, about gifts. You're allowed to open them. Guessing is not required."

Sherlock held the box aloft, and John could tell he was assessing density, weight, mass, trying to gauge size by the vibrations within the carefully (just for this reason) padded box. He even sniffed at the wrapping paper seams, as if he could get a scent through the paper. A narrowed glance followed, as if he was annoyed at John for some reason. "Yes, but --"

Rosie chuckled, finishing the question. "... where's the fun in that?" Her inflection, her tone, the pomposity, was spot on. John tried hard not to laugh too hard, to somehow convey that mocking someone was wise. Eventually, even she huffed. "Oh just open the thing."

Sherlock did open it, sat staring inside for a moment, emotions playing widely across his face, his eyes. A riveting moment of eye contact, directly at John, a curiosity, full of sentiment and gratitude and wonder.

John handed the partnering package to Rosie, then, a book of astronomy for European Star Gazing, and contemplated Sherlock. He basked in the moment. No small feat, he knew, to actually manage to surprise his flatmate.

Rosie squealed, the book in her hand, and flew to the window to check out the night sky, compare it to one of the many charts that unfolded from the gift.

"Thought it would be something nice you two could do together."

Sherlock hesitated, mouth moving a few times but apparently undecided on the words. "I ... Yes, that would be ... With Rosie, of course." He finally smiled at his own indecisiveness, and that soft look was back again. John reached out with his stocking-ed foot to rub lightly over Sherlock's ankle, and John could only imagine the back story of the spyglass when he saw Sherlock's eyes actually get a small bit wet at that.

"Will you tell me about it, later?"

Sherlock pressed to his feet, stopping first to give John the sweetest kiss, a promise for later, an expression of thanks and yes. "Of course." And he held the spyglass carefully, went to join Rosie at the window.

John continued to bask, thinking that the pirate theme might be fun. Perhaps later, after Rosie had gone to bed and it was just the two of them again, in the safety and stillness of their bedroom, he would hear the rest of the story. And if he got really lucky, he would have Sherlock model the eye-patch. And hopefully appreciate the silk, pirate pants with skull and crossbones that John was presently wearing.


	3. Do you hear what I hear?

"No."

"Sherlock."

"I'm not going."

"I'll make it worth your while." John doesn't know exactly what awaits, just that Mycroft advised he do all he could, using 'whatever means necessary, Dr. Watson' to get Sherlock to attend.

Sherlock glared, the stubborn set of his jaw particularly annoyed. "How?"

"A favour."

"Of my own choosing."

"Within reason."

"Then no. A favour. Whatever I want."

"Nothing dangerous, immoral, illegal, painful, harmful, filthy, destructive." John got on a real roll, then, adding, "And nothing I'll have to clean up later, or apologise for, or ..."

Sherlock huffed. "Fine."

John had an address, two tickets in his pocket, and a particularly grouchy companion, who sulked, stalked, and otherwise complained much of the duration of the walk to the tube, on which he then pulled out his mobile and amused himself stopping every now and again to scowl.

"Christmas is so ... pedestrian," he groused as they left the station, passed holiday decorations, carolers, a bizarre display. They headed toward a building, lit, music playing, turning toward the small theatre ahead. Sherlock saw it, balked. His feet, planted. His affect, resolute. "No."

"You said you would."

"I'm changing my mind. Going back on my word."

John finally sighed. "Look, I have no idea exactly what this is, but I was assured you --" He paused to rub at his face. "I'm supposed to remind you something about ... Mrs. Chittick."

"John what have you done?"

"Who is Mrs. Chittick exactly?"

Mumbling.

"You are quite aware that was unintelligible." Had it been a possibility, the look he pierced John with would have been accompanied by steam hissing from his head. John couldn't resist. "Your posh school diction tutor would be appalled."

"Violin tutor."

"Okay, then. That explains it, I suppose." John held out the tickets, fanned them apart, thinking to himself that this may be a losing battle and that Mycroft yet again set him up terribly. Probably for holiday amusement. He briefly considered giving a one-fingered salute to a CCTV camera if he knew where the nearest one even was. He ignored the impulse, recognising it would not be beneficial to the current convincing Sherlock still needed. "I was assured you would find it ... _good_."

"And you believed Mycroft?"

"Yes. He and I know you've been ... restless lately." He offered a quite brief explanation that he'd been just looking for something to help, that Mycroft had texted him, that this idea just sort of ... _happened._

Sherlock stood tall, squared his shoulders. "I reserve the right to leave if I choose to."

John succeeded in hiding his surprise at Sherlock's conditional surrender. "Fine by me. But then no favour. Not unless you stay to the end."

++

Sherlock was still scowling as they entered the theatre, which ended up being a fantastically small venue, subdued lighting, rich burgundy fabrics, deep mahogany furnishings. Their seats were, thankfully, on the aisle off to the side, because if John were a wagering man, he would absolutely be betting he would indeed be following Sherlock from the building before too long. Probably, he thought wryly, mid-song and loudly, coat-tails flouncing, collar up of course. Punctuated, he thought wryly, with muttering and stomping.

The lights dimmed, other attendees took their seats, and the curtains opened.

Strings - violins, violas, cellos, string bass took the stage, carried by elegant, regal appearing musicians, somber but pleasant, focused, professional. The concert master came out last, stood, bowed to the audience. The tuning note was struck, a rich tone, the orchestra finally ready. The conductor appeared, nodded, raised his baton.

Sherlock was frozen, eyes front, barely breathing, taking in each note, each breath, each strike of the pizzicato and each, beautifully uniform pull of the bow. Of the sea of bows. Energy from the stage was positively delightful, full, harmonic, and John was riveted to the music himself by it. That is, until he caught sight of Sherlock.

The music was indeed wonderful; watching Sherlock, however, ten times better. He was positively _spellbound._ Pure unadulterated appreciation.

One Christmas classic tune completed, high energy, full swells, and finally, after a full set of music, holiday interspersed with classical, the lights dimmed more and all but four musicians left the stage. Chairs quickly arranged, a silent breathy count, and another piece began.

Do you hear what I hear began to play, the classic carol, starting low as the cellist skillfully sounded out the low and plaintive, single run of notes. It was slow, sad, almost melancholy, joined softly by both violins. Minor chords where there used to be major ones, dissonance instead of resolution, the song grew, the musicians becoming more animated, louder, stronger, authoritative. A faint percussion instrument joined in, the pace and vibration of the song, the piece, the work, higher energy and full, rich harmonies.

Applause after the piece lasted long minutes, a standing ovation, a few calls of 'bravo' from the audience. Sherlock, however, remained seated, and John along with him. He hadn't expected such ... deep reaction to the concert and of course had no clue to the reason behind it.

The musicians, from the stage, stood, the violinist intentionally taking a step back, scanning the audience. With his bow and a very deliberate gesture, he pointed in Sherlock's direction, a bow, a nod. John glanced at Sherlock then, rapidly back to the musician, who smiled, winked, and then left the stage with the others.

"Did you hear that?" Sherlock asked, still shell-shocked, his voice rough, incredulous. "Did you hear what I heard?"

With a quiet hush, John restated the title of the song, "Do you hear what I hear?" Though the comment could have been derailing, it was not, did not break the moment. To Sherlock's question, he simply shook his head no and leaned closer.

"The overtones of that song. That song, my mother's favourite, she would play it every year on whatever instrument she chose. Hammer Dulcimer one year, strings of course, piano. My father occasionally joined, on his flute, the duet was ..." Wistful, Sherlock breathed deep, continued in another vein. "One year, she tried it on wine glasses with different water levels - unsuccessful, that." His speech, more pressured, quick, the passion and liveliness hard to resist grinning at. "No, really, but the overtones, John. It's the top note, harmonics that form the fifth note of a perfect chord, tight harmony, surely you noticed." 

"I enjoy music, but I didn't really get that." He watched Sherlock get perplexed, disbelieving, at him. "I didn't hear it."

Sherlock tilted a little sideways in his seat, most of the rest of the concertgoers either already gone or moving toward the exit. "Unfortunate," he began, slowly, introspective, "that this is associated even a small amount with Mycroft."

"You know, just let that aside for tonight." John was enjoying Sherlock's current, much more complacent mood, the theatre a really quite beautiful, the evening, a satisfying success. He angled himself, too, more focused on Sherlock than the surroundings. He fit right in. "So explain, if you will. Mrs. Chittick, the song. Why that song, by the way? Of all that there is to choose from, why that?"

"I have no idea. My mother, though, absolutely loved what she could do with it. Major, minor, slow, upbeat. The various voices, the harmony. She actually, come to think of it, recorded it, several instruments, overlaying her own tracks so that the whole piece ..." John listened while Sherlock continued for a few minutes, reminiscing about his music teacher and her antics, her tolerance and even ... enjoyment of Sherlock's talent, the history of the song, the origin of the words and music. John sat, listened, enjoying his vibrant dissertation, his energy, and Sherlock did finally wind down, slow his speech, more relaxed, calm, at peace. "And there at the end, the pointing."

John smiled in response to Sherlock's pause. "It was just for you, wasn't it?"

A smile, another nod, an adorable glance in John's direction. "I think so." The theatre was nearly empty, but neither was in a rush, and Sherlock reached over, his hand warm as it found John's, a small squeeze, a tease. "Now, I do believe you owe me a favour."

The heated longing in Sherlock's gaze, his demeanor, reverberated right through John, from his hand in Sherlock's warm fingers right to the center of his chest.

"I think," and Sherlock hesitated, watching John's anticipation grow, the thrill, "we'll head home, put on some music, pour a bit of that whiskey you prefer, and ..." he reached around John's neck dragged him close, lips touching, brushing, seeking and promising much more.

"Yes."


	4. You'd Better Watch Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, not at all what I started out with the intent to write. Ends well, some misunderstandings on the way there.

"You can't just do stuff like that."

"Don't be ridiculous." 

John shook his head yet again at Sherlock's lack of social skills, acceptable behaviours, as they left their flat, Rosie safely with Mrs. Hudson, who would put her to bed later. "So," Sherlock mused, "you're telling me that I can't deduce people at the Yard's holiday party tonight?"

"No. People don't want to be ... _eviscerated_ at all, but yes, especially at a holiday party, in front of their friends."

"It's what I'm known for. It's what I do."

"I'm just telling you, you need to watch out. It's hurtful." John's radar activated, a bit of fear taking root at Sherlock's stubborn determination, when it seemed like he was embodying reverse psychology. Telling him something made him, in these moods anyway, seem to just want to do the opposite. Out of spite. Rebelling against the rules. "It'd just be a shame if it came back to bite you. If someone else ... embarrassed you like that, I don't think you'd appreciate it."

The words were still echoing in John's head when, an hour later, the warning had gone completely unheeded, a small confrontation between Sherlock and Donovan. Again. Escalated. _Again_. Spiraled beyond reasonable and he'd humiliated Donovan over an indiscretion, over a liaison years previously. The echo precaution got louder when she went on the offensive, firing up her computer, while on a tear about how Sherlock was childish, selfish, clueless, and as she connected wirelessly from her laptop to the smart projector, she managed, despite the red flush that was still smarting about her face to have mostly commandeered the room.

"I've had it. I'm done. You're ..." She clenched her teeth at him, spectacularly angry, launching in a different tack. "At least I outgrew that. At least it was reciprocated." Her gaze settled on Sherlock, who seemed to grow slightly quieter, taller. And then over at John, who immediately grew concerned, alarmed. "At least," and she cleared her throat, "I had the good sense to speak up about it, and then when it was over, to move on and not ruin someone else's life."

Her vision took in John's face - still, fearful, almost a sense of dread - and she shrugged at him, apologetically but not enough to sit down and shut up. Sherlock missed all of that, and he stood at the side of the room, a bit less smug. John glanced over to see that he had somehow managed to start building an invisible wall about himself, an almost palpable stay-away-from-me look about him, around him. Shutting people out, shutting himself in. Again.

Lestrade cleared his throat then, tried to re-take the room. "I think it's time for some more music," he tried. "And how about some dessert?"

Sherlock blinked quickly as he spoke. "No." Most eyes turned toward him then, John's included. "Let her speak her mind. I'm sure it's nothing more than a pitiful attempt that will only further her own cause, a juvenile endeavor to divert. A rationalisation and an excuse why."

Lestrade put his hands up, brushing at his temple, his effort at damage control. "Reconsider, I think it best." Dynamics in the room, watching Lestrade the administrator, seeing underlings, sensing that he could pull rank, insist, but did not.

Donovan faltered a little, but the screen came to life, a few clicks, and a file appeared in her directory. "I saved this for just the right time, then. The freak has humiliated me for the last time, and I'm done with it." She avoided Lestrade's corner of the room, raised her chin slightly. "Happened to grab a few photos once, caught him unaware, after the wed --"

The room was plunged into darkness, the projector, the lights, the music, and there were a few seconds of complete and total darkness before the back up, emergency lights flashed on.

Greg scanned the room, Sherlock was also looking around, finding Anderson, Donovan, a few other of the officers also looking around.

John was nowhere to be found, although the front door was just closing, and a man with the stature and stride of John Watson was observed striding quickly out of the building, briskly down the kerb, to be swallowed by the darkness.

A moment later, Donovan's mobile chimed, loud in the room that was mostly filled with murmuring under the harsh, LED emergency lights. The text, one word, visible only to her: **Don't.**

Sherlock said nothing to anyone, but he did end up in the hallway with Greg, ensuring the building was secure and check things out. The door to the electric fuse box room was open, the panel ajar, the main switch thrown. Greg shook his head as he flicked it back on, impressed at how quick it had been accomplished - and how effective. There was a low hum as power was restored to the building. "You'd better hope that the projecter, and her computer, take a while to restore after crashing like that."

"I don't care."

"John might."

"What do you mean by that?"

Greg's brows came together. "I don't know how you can still, after all this time, not know how he feels about you." It was just the two of them, standing there, and Greg's tone was soft, tentative. "Because god, Sherlock, you truly might not care. But I don't think John would appreciate having it broadcast like that."

"I have no idea what you're going on about."

With a sad sigh, Greg closed up the panel, the closet, and led Sherlock away from where the party was sort of getting back on track - sans projector - and toward the front door. "Go talk to John."

He was quiet, but listened to Greg as the two of them stood by the exit of the building.

"Go home. Start with the words thank you." Lestrade gave him a pat on the arm. "I'll see what I can do about deleting those photos Donovan has of you."

"I don't -- I'm not -- Surely he -- really?" Realising he was more incoherent than usual, not quite babbling, Sherlock finally snapped his lips shut, eyes bright, body tense.

Greg halted their progress in the hallway, where a room full of people were celebrating Christmas, music and beverage and snacks, a few crazy presents from the gift exchange still to be done. Outside, somewhere, John had managed to prevent a photo from being shown, and had disappeared. "You know, mate," Greg said very quietly, "I'm not the only one who has seen you watch him when you think no one's looking."

With long fingers, Sherlock worked his Belstaff buttoned, glancing at the doorway, but seemed concerned and made no immediate move to leave. There was most definitely a question on his face that he was unwilling to verbalise.

"Go," Greg assured him. "He watches you too, that he does." Long strides carried Sherlock from the building. Back home, where he knew - or at least hoped -John would be waiting for him.

++

Fairy lights from the tree reflected in the tumbler of scotch John was holding and in the darkness of his eyes as Sherlock entered the sitting room. Wordless, Sherlock hung his coat, toed off his shoes, helped himself to the scotch. John had left the bottle uncapped, a second glass there and waiting as if he'd known.

"Rosie's ...?"

"Yes, asleep. Mrs. H said she was good."

"Good. Fine."

"Yes, fine." John snickered at the ridiculousness of their conversational banalities, their filler, their discomfort at silences, a distraction at what had actually - almost - gone down this evening.

Sherlock made a face at the burn of the first sip of the liquor. "Greg told me to start off by saying thank you." John took a swig, set down the scotch, turned to stare expectantly at Sherlock. "So, thank you, I suppose."

"You suppose," John parroted. "Would you like to see the photo she was going to flash in front of everyone?" He reached for his mobile, next to him on the end table. "Which, by the way, was quite a room full of people. Not all of whom particularly have any business knowing ..."

"Knowing what? Everyone there already suspects, or used to, or still does, and you know what? Who bloody cares. People talk, let them."

John opened his phone, wriggled it. "Because I have it." He held it out, offering. "She and I swapped a few texts, actually."

The photo, a candid from John's wedding. It was, as expected, Sherlock's heart on his sleeve, his eyes full of sadness and melancholy as he watched John standing with a group of people, Mary next to him but not paying any attention. It was so obvious, the depth of his feelings, all right there and captured somewhat remarkably. Clearly, Sherlock had let down his guard in a very public place. It almost certainly didn't last long, but long enough to be memorialised in a photo.

"There's another," John said quietly, leaned over with a finger to swipe at the screen.

The second, almost more incriminating, of Sherlock leaving the reception, eyes fully and completely heartbroken, a glance over his shoulder into the reception hall, and visible in the doorway, John was dancing with Mary, both of them laughing and full of love. A complete juxtaposition of opposites in that second photo.

There were a few text messages, too, that Sherlock scrolled through, then, starting with one from John to Sgt. Donovan, simply **Don't.**

**Why shouldn't I? Freak deserves it.**

**It's unkind.**

**So was he, to me, tonight.**

**I understand. But what's gained by it?**

A few minutes later, John texted her again. **If for no other reason, do it as a favour to me.**

"A favour to you." Sherlock read the text aloud, but John was looking down, avoiding the sight that took in so much. "So why do you even care?"

John responded with a question of his own. "How can you possibly not know?"

"George said something earlier, along those lines." At that, John did look up directly into Sherlock's shrewd eyes, began to open his mouth. "Yes of course I know his name is Greg."

"There's another picture." John let that sink in, did not explain any further.

"She's bloody obsessed, another photo of me. Ridiculous, as you can well --"

"The third photo is of me."

Sherlock tilted the mobile so that John could open it again, locate it. The third photo was indeed of John Watson taken at the wedding. It was even more bittersweet than the one of Sherlock. In it, John was looking up at Sherlock from the head table, must've been taken at the precise moment just at the high point of Sherlock's best man speech, just before John stood up to hug him. But the heartfelt, overwhelming emotion, overwhelming fondness and caring and concern was all right there, visible.

The mobile, John's face, the mobile, back to John's face went Sherlock's eyes, a few times.

"Does this mean --?" Sherlock said slowly, and though John wanted nothing more acutely than to interject a quick and triumphant _Yes!_ in the pause, he waited. "--that you have more than best friend feelings ... _for me?"_ A careful, deliberate nod. "What about not gay, then, all those times?"

"Still true. Bi, actually."

"I want it all. Immediately." The change in Sherlock's demeanor was instantaneous. Confident, smiling, intense, bright-eyed. Predatory. "I will not be denied, after all this time. I never thought ..."

"Sherlock," John whispered, sliding closer, taking his mobile back to set it aside, getting more in Sherlock's personal space, close enough to press lips together, breathing each other in, the shock of the moment replaced rapidly with an eagerness, excitement. The kiss was hot and promising, lip and tongue, demanding.

"Earlier this evening," Sherlock said with great seriousness, "you advised me that I'd better watch out." His fingers went to John's jaw, pulling him into his orbit yet again. The kiss was almost aggressive - and quite welcome, and John resisted only for a moment before his back arched, a moan from deep within. Sherlock eased back long enough to stand up, taking John with him, fingers already seeking out the outline of chest muscles, an awareness of where buttons were located, before he continued his thought. "I think," _snog, snog, grope,_ "I must issue the same directive," _press, light pinch, knead,_ "right back at you."


	5. Fireplace

"What's wrong with her?"

"Cold, I suppose." John shrugged. "Nothing terribly unusual. No bizarre, unusual plague or illness, sorry."

"I doubt it."

"It's a cold, Sherlock. Rosie has a _cold_ , that's all."

"Did you take her to the doctor?" 

"Hello, you do recall ..."

"I mean a paediatrician. A real doctor."

John brushed his hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose, kept his annoyed responses to himself. Instead, refusing to get sidetracked by his flatmate and distracted from his daughter, he kept to the plan - snuggle and comfort her, medicate, put her to bed at a reasonable hour and hope for the best. Or, minimally, a decent night's sleep. A few hours anyway. "Here, hold her a minute?"

Rosie groaned a little, her cheeks flushed, as John set her into Sherlock's arms, and John noticed that Sherlock tried to keep his face averted.

"What are you doing?" John asked, seeing his attempt at avoidance before getting busy with the fireplace.

"I don't want her germs, bacteria, virus spores. Prefer not to get sick with something as common as a cold."

"Oh, well, good luck with that. I'm sure we've both been well exposed to whatever she's got."

Newsprint, few small sticks, a larger piece of wood, a few smaller logs next to the hearth, and John lit the base of the fire, adjusted the chimney flu and the screen. The red glow caught, smoked, then spread along the grate, the newspaper igniting quickly, heating, smouldering before the flame burst. Rosie whined again from Sherlock's direction, obviously uncomfortable, unhappy, and he turned back to attend to her. He located the infant cold medicine, a sippy cup with her water, grabbed her favourite book and stuffed animal before coming back to scoop Rosie back up into his arms.

Softly, he nuzzled at her, feeling her relax into his shoulder. "There you are, a bit of a snuggle on the couch, yeah?" He pressed his lips to her (warm, too warm, he thought), then followed it with a temporal thermometer. "No wonder you're such a limp noodle, with your little fever, love." He measured the dose of the cold medicine, gave it, offered her water, and sat back as they watched the coloured flames of the fireplace start low, faint shades of orange, hints of red flames, the licks of white at the bottom where it was the hottest. The sizzle and crackle, the mesmerising view had always held her attention, and it did not fail to keep her occupied, calm, relaxed. He then read her a book as she rested, until she grew heavy with sleep.

She wriggled a small bit more, and he touched her temple, feeling the pulse there, her skin a little cooler, tucking the faint wisps of curls back off her face. The golden brown curls, sweet, and he found himself thinking of the other curls in the room. When he lifted his eyes, mind wondering what the dark curls would feel like in his fingers, he found Sherlock watching. Quiet, intense, fond.

Before his thoughts betrayed him completely, he brushed again at Rosie's temple, and could feel her relaxing even more against him. Almost fully asleep.

"I'm going to take her up, then."

Sherlock nodded, turned back to the website he'd been reading, muttered an absent acknowledgement as John did so. He tucked in a carefully medicated, sound asleep baby, turned the baby monitor on and when he reappeared in the sitting room, it was with duvet, pillow, and pyjama pants.

"What are you doing?"

"Crashing on the couch. Ever sleep with a sick baby? They snore, sniffle, breathe loud, and moan in their sleep, or at least Rosie does. Thank you, no. Here is fine. By the fire," and John set another bigger log on, then disappeared into the loo to return in sleep gear. The crackle and zing of the fire soon had his own eyes heavy, and though he really wanted to read some more of his current book, he ended up setting it aside to tuck himself under the warmth and ease of the blankets.

He was in that sweet spot of slumber, that point right before consciousness faded when he felt long fingers brush lightly against his hair, that very place above his ear at the top of his cheek. The fingers slid into the hair at his temple, smoothing, gently, a comforting rub meant to relax, to soothe, to assure.

John reached out quickly, his thumb and fingers wrapping around the wrist, and opened his eyes to find soft, passionate blue eyes very close, watching. Warm hues from the fire cast tones of red, burnt orange highlights into the curly halo around Sherlock.

Behind Sherlock's ever-nearing profile, the fire softly crackled.


	6. Part 1 of 5 -The Snowman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Five Part collection of Snippets:
> 
> Snowman
> 
> Music 
> 
> A Beautiful Sight
> 
> Warm and Cozy
> 
> Peace

"Pass." Sherlock snorted.

"Oh, no." John could feel his hackles rise at Sherlock's statement.

"Not going."

"You promised." The shrug Sherlock gave was enough to raise John's blood pressure into apoplectic range. "You promised _Rosie_."

"I did no such thing."

John took a deep breath. "She was sitting right here when you told me you had nothing on this afternoon. That you'd go, and that you'd be thrilled."

"Dear me, did you not recognise the sarcasm?"

"I may have, but apparently - _obviously,_ Rosie did not." Sherlock made a face. "Gods sake, Sherlock, she's five. All she heard was that you were going with us to Harry and Clara's, that we're building a snowman together."

Blink.

"You're going."

"I'll tell her otherwise."

"So exactly what do you have on for the afternoon? Since crushing the hopes of my five year old daughter is not anywhere on your agenda." Sherlock was quiet, probably searching for something remotely close to a valid excuse for avoiding an excursion in the snow. To John's sister's home. "Don't make this ugly. Because ... seriously, mate. Rosie's already for some reason decided that other kids have it easy, the ones with mums to shop for and that are planning Christmas and whatnot. I explained to her, again, just yesterday about how she is just as special, that we are special, that because you and I are friends, have managed to share a flat without me killing you -"

"John."

"-- all right, I may not have used that phrase exactly, but because she's got the two of us, that it's just as wonderful. They must talk about it at school, therefore we have to talk about it at home too. We had this big to-do about families being different."

"Please tell me that you didn't bring the two dads conversation into it."

"Of course not." After all these years, John had managed to keep his attraction for his flatmate at a low simmer, not a huge dissatisfier, and along with Rosie, they managed quite well (usually) to share their lives and enjoy their togetherness. "We are a family, though. Surely you can't argue that point."

A raised brow said plain as day, _Argue? If you insist. Let's begin, shall we?_

"It's important to her."

"No, I suppose you have a point. But I have no intention of spending hours out in the cold and the snow building a snowman."

"No problem. We'll be done in under an hour." John's murderous expression, that no-nonsense demeanor, surfaced. "Now, grab boots and gloves, a change of socks if you want, in case we get a little snowy and cold. Harry's got big plans, and Rosie's spending the night." He looked absolutely ready to fuss, complain, pitch a fit, but kept quiet when John raised his hand. "Afterward, we'll do something special, you and I. Dinner or something, one of those crazy places you like. Snowman first, Sherlock. It means a lot to Rosie." The set about Sherlock's stubborn expression settled, and John worked hard at not sighing out loud in relief, and let the potential escalation of their conversation - thankfully - lower. "Means a lot to me, too."

++

"Sherlock!" Rosie squealed when Sherlock complained about the anatomic impossibility of the snowman's head versus chest versus body proportions, and the ridiculous nature of the carrot nose, stick arms, and stones for buttons. "It's not supposed to be a person. It's a snowman!"

"I refuse to be a part of this, then." He faced John, Clara, Harry and Rosie with an arm on his hip. In the brisk air, his cheeks and nose were just faintly pink, and though John would never have spoken it aloud, he did find it rather endearing.

"Fine, then," John snarled, "Give us your scarf and your great big bloody coat for the snowman and we'll let you live. Maybe," he teased, but Clara was even more emphatic about his staying outside while the final finishing touches were put on their creation. While Harry chuckled, Clara even went so far as to threaten him with a firmly packed snowball, at which Rosie cheered and egged on the battle, threatening to join in with delight.

"No." Sherlock moved over to Rosie and John couldn't help but wonder if he was using her as a human shield as he helped her push the large mound of snow around again. "That's fine. If you lot are willing to have such a ridiculously shaped ... monster out here, so be it."

"Not a monster," Rosie corrected him. "His name is Captain Jack."

Harry chuckled at that. "From Pirates of the Caribbean?"

"No," Rosie answered. "The guy from Dr. Who. He's funny, and he wears a long coat like Sherlock, and he might be just as smart." She had more insights on that particular perspective while they did in fact finish the snowman, using a scarf Harry'd brought outside, and John helped with hot chocolate while Rosie arranged some Christmas cookies on a plate.

"Sixty four minutes." Sherlock spoke low to John a bit later, once they'd all hung up jackets and thawed out a little.

"What?"

"You said under an hour."

"At least fifteen of those sixty-four minutes were spent arguing with you. I forgot to calculate in your negative efficiency factor. And seriously, you complained about some truly unimportant things."

"The top hat is very important. Ask anyone." He glanced at Clara for support, who held up her hands and said nothing. "And the sticks for arms, also, shouldn't come out of the middle of the chest, but the top." He held out his arm to demonstrate. "See, out of the shoulder, the top, up here. Not out of the middle section here."

John struck out quickly with his hand, a tickle, a tease, a pinch at Sherlock's ribs, and as he'd expected, Sherlock's arm snapped down out of reflex and he let out an undignified squeak. "Actually, your arm seems to kind of prefer that middle section, in my opinion."

Harry let out a dramatic sigh and gave Rosie a small nudge. "How do you stand them? Is every day like this?"

"No, sometimes it's much worse, Aunt Harry," Rosie said, grinning but she did have a point. "They'll be leaving soon."

"And we're making gingerbread later, watching a movie, having a sleepover in the living room," Harry reminded her, smiling back. "Build a big fort, okay?"

"Bye dad," Rosie said, getting down from the table and wandering over to get her sleeping bag.

From the door, Harry chuckled as she confirmed final arrangements with John, made her farewells, and Rosie was already pulling cushions from the sofa and unfolding blankets. She glanced up long enough to see that they were going. "Bye dad," she said again.

Clara had come over, leaned close enough to whisper, "Yeah, bye dads," she said with a wink at Harry.

Sherlock's eyes got big, and he would have paused at the door were it not for John's strong hands shoving him outside as the door closed behind them, muffling the giggling.

"John."

"Don't. Just ... don't, okay?"

"Are you sure you didn't ...?"

"Of course I'm sure. It'll be fine." Sherlock looked dubious, so John reminded him, "They're making gingerbread cookies, having fun, did you want to stay longer to make sure nothing gets discussed?"

"God no."

"Then stop worrying. We have the whole evening, a childless evening, to ourselves." John smiled, knowing that Harry may tease a bit, but that Rosie was going to have a great time. 

"One thing, before we go," Sherlock said, catching sight then going to look at the snowman again, and John thought for a moment he was considering knocking the head off. Instead, Sherlock pondered it a moment, took off the snowman's scarf, then replaced it with his own. "Much better."

"Madman," John breathed as Sherlock shook out the gaudy, scarlet and gold striped scarf then wrapped it about his neck. "Those definitely aren't your colours, either."

"What do you mean, my colours?"

John almost mentioned something about him not belonging to Gryffindor, opted to let the reference go.

They were interrupted by loud tapping on the front window, from where Harry, Clara, and Rosie stood gesturing and applauding at the changes to the snowman wearing Sherlock's scarf. Faintly, their laughter was even audible, carried outside, and both John and Sherlock waved back at their audience.

"The snowman looks much better," Sherlock observed.

"Of course it does."

"You're sure Rosie's ..."

"She's fine," John assured him, thought briefly about pointing out the similarity of his concern to that of a parental nature, opted not to. "So, dinner?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (and yes, I have chosen five from the list - they are not sequential - hopefully the advent fic police will leave me in peace)


	7. Part 2 of 5 - Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second of five parts of these little Advent Ficlets:
> 
> Snowman (ch. 6) - in which John, Sherlock, Rosie, and John’s sister Harry build a snowman.
> 
> Music **
> 
> A Beautiful Sight
> 
> Warm and Cozy
> 
> Peace

After the group had finished building a snowman (and warming up with hot chocolate), John and Sherlock headed back toward town. Rosie was having a sleepover at Aunt Harry's and Aunt Clara's. Or at least, was spending the night, and John wasn't sure that too much sleeping was going to be going on. They had plans for a fort made of blankets and cushions, baking cookies, and who knew what else. But they were all excited. And he was looking forward to an evening with Sherlock, where there were no noise considerations, no babysitting issues, no one else to worry about specifically.

They headed toward the nearest tube station, which wasn't terribly crowded, and once they'd exited at their stop, John paused a bit. "A mite early for dinner, you up for a walk instead? Something else, a pint maybe?"

A wordless shrug and a nod, and they fell into step with each other, randomly, down a few unfamiliar streets, in the direction of a more active market area.

"Perhaps pick up a gift for Mrs. Hudson ...?" John began to suggest, but then caught sight of Sherlock, who was frowning, head up, his attention having been grabbed by something. Or someone. "What is it?"

"This way," he said, not especially urgently, but he was definitely focused. "I hear music."

A half a block away, there was indeed an old, tall, stone church, door propped open, and coming from within, a boys choir rehearsing. It was a section of town they didn't usually walk through, and definitely had never been there before.

Sherlock paused at the door, uncertain, but John gave a shrug of his own and stepped inside. It seemed more of a party than a rehearsal, lighthearted and a little casual, and the director was a high energy, animated, smiling young man. He listened, gestured, using his entire, expressively held body to convey what he wanted from the singers and cued the sections to their part, the organist for guidance, and even stepped up on one of the pews at one point to elicit smiles and louder projections from the lads.

At the end of the song, he raised his arms, calling out loudly his encouragement, and there was a few minutes of laughter and some housekeeping details to work out with a few of the other musicians. He searched the room looking for someone, but mid-sentence caught sight of Sherlock.

"Sherlock Holmes?!" he said, clearly enough to be heard. "I can't believe it, it's really you!" and he jogged a few steps to say hello, be quickly introduced to John, and ask if he could stay for a few minutes until this rehearsal was over.

They were practicing for a performance for Christmas in a few weeks, and he worked the gathered musicians and singers through a few more holiday songs, then just as he was about to have them do the final song before dismissing, he stopped to stare yet again at Sherlock.

"Before we go, boys, I bumped into an old friend from uni. Okay, Mr. Holmes, Do you mind? I'd love for you to come up and say hello?" He was poised initially to refuse, but John nodded, patting his arm, silently raising brow and hoping to communicate, _don't make a scene_. He whispered a bit of encouragement, and Sherlock did indeed begin to move forward. "Come on up here. Mr. Sherlock Holmes, boys. Best tenor ever when we were classmates together. I don't suppose you still have the range, do you?" he asked, a good natured smile about him, his arm coming around Sherlock as he drew him to the front of the group.

Sherlock was shaking his head, hands tucked into his pockets, but he smiled and said, "Lost that long ago. Baritone now, actually."

"Voice of an angel, let me tell you," the director said, to the boys, the rest of the group. "Perhaps you could join in on this last piece, just for fun, before we dismiss for the night?"

"Oh, no I don't think --"

He was overrun and overpowered by the entire chorus squealing for him to do so. Probably, John thought, because the group wanted to hasten along the rehearsal ending rather than any other motivation.

The piece was a classic, simple Christmas tune, and John couldn't help but approach too, joining the crowd of standing adults already there, including Sherlock. He was close enough to hear without being intrusive, and wanted desperately to record this but knew his flatmate wouldn't care for that. Although he'd suspected Sherlock and Mycroft both had been musical in addition to the violin, he wasn't terribly surprised that he had vocal talent too.

The number was acapella and well suited to the acoustics of the room - vaulted ceilings, the echoing quality of a large church. Perfect to showcase vocal talent. _Sherlock's_ talent.

And talent it was - his voice clear, strong, melodic. He enunciated clearly, his pitch pure and true, following the swells and builds with the other voices. His voice had a resonance to it when he sang that John hadn't really ever heard before, a commanding power and presence. Close enough to hear both Sherlock and the director, John listened as their voices - Sherlock singing melody, the director adding a careful harmony overtop those tones - blend and compliment. John was almost sad when the song was over. There was a smattering of applause, and the group rehearsal ended. John hung back a little, watching Sherlock and the director catch up with each other, and he joined in when Sherlock beckoned.

"Nice to meet you, officially, Dr. Watson," the man said.

"You too. Thanks for that, what a gift, actually, getting to hear that."

"Of course. Always nice for the boys to see that adults can be good sports about it, and still sing beyond school or church or university." While talking with them, he gathered up some of his papers, answered a few questions of the boys or their parents, and a few of them came up to say hello to Sherlock and specifically thank him for singing tonight. "So I read about you from time to time, your career. Guess you're glad you turned down the chance to go professional with your voice, yeah?"

"What's this then?" John asked low, to Sherlock, but the meaning was clear even if he hadn't been overheard.

"Oh yeah, didn't he tell you? They wanted him to take lead, major in voice, audition for every theatre production that came by." A chuckle. "He said no every time."

Sherlock, amused, answered slowly, "No, no regrets."

"And you turned it down for what, to major in criminology or something?"

"Chemistry. And never finished the degree, actually." Sherlock almost seemed bored, and John had a quick flash of concern over the conversation getting personal. "Wasn't necessary. Though don't tell the boys that."

The director chuckled, eyes crinkling. "Of course. You could finish up at university, you know."

Picturing Sherlock in a classroom, following directions and completing papers, John managed just barely to contain the laughter. Discreetly, Sherlock stepped closer, his foot coming to rest over John's toes before moving on. "Nightmare. No one would appreciate that," he said.

John nodded in agreement. "Unpredictable schedule," John said, carefully wanting to defend and deflect the rest of the questions that could follow. "Brightest mind in London, solves those otherwise unsolvable crimes. He's quite amazing, actually."

John’s sentence was interrupted by a small herd of children racing, laughing, a lively game of chase, one that ended with a small laughing pile of boys clinging to the feet of another child. The director, grinning, added briefly to the mix, genuinely enjoying the tussle. The boys disbanded, a few summoned by a parent, another tying a shoe, two more racing through a small doorway.

”Insanity, these evening rehearsals at holiday. Energy beyond belief.” All smiled then at the antics of one of the families leaving, the father carrying a giggling kid under each arm, while laughing himself. "Such fun, this age." Then he turned to them both, asking "Do you have children?"

John couldn’t stop the smile as he answered. "A daughter. We have a daughter." He could sense Sherlock's attention. "She's five."

The smile on the directors face was quick, sincere. "Then you know how it can be." Another smile. "Maybe she’ll be the musician in the family. I'm sure she'll love music as the two of you do," he predicted merrily. "You still play the violin?"

"Casually."

"It was great to see you again," the director said finally, a bit reluctantly as he checked the time and most of the kids were exiting.

John took in the room again, appreciating the experience. "Enjoyed this very much."

"I could tell, your face while he was singing. I'm glad." 

A few more idle pleasantries were exchanged, complete with an invite to the concert the following weekend, and eventually John and Sherlock strolled outside, pace slow, quiet and introspective.

"Had no idea you sang in uni."

"Well, to be honest, the high I was after at that time wasn't exactly just the high notes."

"I see." John knew Sherlock had been clean a long time now. "That was still quite nice, I enjoyed ..."

Sherlock interrupted, calmly. "You didn't need to defend my uneducated honour, by the way."

John smirked, said, "Seemed safer than other ways the conversation could have gone. And wiser than you calling anyone, including uni professors, idiots."

"I do admit, singing was fun." Sherlock hesitated, stopping near a bench to watch the sky a bit, and when he glanced back at John, the grin was genuine and broad. "I used to really enjoy that, back in the day, too."

"I'm glad. Christmas music is always ..."

"Yes, full of memories and such." Their pace resumed, relaxed and easy. "The group was an acapella group, and we used to love singing in a room like that, or even a smaller one with a higher ceiling." He mentioned a few specific memories of pieces or experiences before the silence descended, mostly comfortable. Companionable.

"You let him think Rosie was mine. And that we are together." A raise of the brow. "Why?"

He hesitated, wondering how comfortable either of them were with both of those at least partially true statements. "It seemed the easiest explanation. And Rosie, well, she's not just mine. She's ours. And you know it." John chuckled. "Though if you want her to have musical aspirations, you're going to have to start singing around the flat. Maybe she'll join you."

"If she carries a pitch like you do, it won't be worth the effort."

John did finally laugh out loud, drawing a few stares of people on the sidewalk near them. "Berk." He slid an arm again toward Sherlock, resting lightly on his back as they walked. "So, dinner?"

Sherlock nodded, “Angelo's?”

John snickered quietly at the meandering of his thoughts, and when Sherlock glanced at him with curiosity, he took Sherlock’s hand, twining their fingers together and muttered, “I think perhaps a candle on the table might be in order tonight.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I chose these five prompts out of order, mostly, and the story will definitely connect, though it is not critical to have read the others, or even read them in order. Best I can tell, there is no out-of-order, fic prompt police ... Here's hoping anyway.


	8. Part 3 of 5 - Beautiful Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie has just been dropped off for a sleepover at Aunt Harry and Aunt Clara's.  
> Snowman (chapter 6)
> 
> They wandered into a church, where a boys choir was singing, had a little stroll down memory lane.  
> Music (chapter 7)
> 
> A Beautiful Sight **
> 
> Warm and Cozy
> 
> Peace

Front table, window, white tablecloth, shiny flatware.

Smiling Angelo, a greeting, a scrutiny of insight, searching, perhaps seeing, knowing, finding something deeper.

Something more, something about to change.

Just two adults this evening, rather than with child accompaniment.

Candle, flickering, deep crimson in a low, crystal holder. Burnished yellow flame, dancing and waving with air currents in the room. A dip in the light each time someone walks by, or when the door opens. Faint dark ash from a cheap wick.

Outside, streetlights, dingy, illuminating a kerb, a few holiday shoppers. Garland and red ribbon adorn most of the light poles.

An elbow clasp as Angelo seats them, a cautionary hold, a pleading. John stares, curious, at the faint squeeze before gesturing at the chair, the table. Their table.

Menus, wine list, the candle between them casting shadows around glasses, plates clean, shiny, with worn silver etching, a wrapped cloth napkin.

Wicker basket is delivered, hot bread, thick, baked, and crusty, wholly wrapped in pale linen. A faint line of steam is emitted, John's fingers break off a piece and nudge the basket across the table. Long fingers across from him flex, spread, pull - capable, confident, elegant.

Candlelight flickers on the cutlery, polished white metal knife in whipped soft butter, spreads across, melting almost instantly. More steam, pungent yeast, a few golden crumbs snick off, fall to the table. John has never flicked at anything, not a fly, not a crumb on a table - not since Magnussen - and he never will. The small flakes of crust are just fine right where they are. The linen tucks in around the bread again, insulating, the folds picking up shadows from the candlelight.

Orders placed, and time slides almost to a slow pace. Fingers wrap around glasses of deep red wine, the click of two stemmed goblets, the habitual toasting of ...

... a successful scene, a good report from a friend, a football score. A win, a loss, a consolation. A celebration of one of John's recovered patients, a closing of an unsolved case file, the capture of a criminal, a successful comeuppance over Mycroft. Unusual, brilliant findings in the morgue. Another theft of one of Lestrade's badges.

Tonight, the toast is perhaps all of that, their years, the holiday, the evening out. All of the Christmases past. Another Christmas together. 

Tonight it includes more than that. It assimilates the jesting from Harry with her crack about their roles as two dads for Rosie. It includes John's statement to the boys choir director that they have a daughter. Perhaps it is the realisation that there is no one else. There will really never be anyone else. Neither has been looking or searching or even thinking about it for a long time.

It is enough. It is more than enough.

It is more than many people ever get a chance to have.

John's dark eyes rise to Sherlock's.

Candlelight flickers, catches the highlights of dark curls. A couple of gray hairs at Sherlock's temples, and John resists the urge to smooth back his own silvery-graying fringe. Across the table, the faintest raise of an amused eyebrow. The sparkle, the twinkle of two pale gray-green-blue eyes watching, seeing, staring back. Admiration going both directions.

Regal nose, the faintest flare at the base, elevated breathing pattern. Arousal, John wonders, hoping it is and that he is not alone in his desire. Cheekbones, high angular wonders of the man that rather quite defy being contained in words. Light flickers in the arch, the hollow, accenting that face that John has been looking at. And looking for. Here all the time.

Bowed lip, pleasant smiling mouth, faint white teeth visible, the nervous tic of a tongue perhaps ready to dart out, the thought of his lips pressing in, dry, warm, then open, softer, tasting. The left side of his smile, slightly crooked when he's not paying attention, an adorable _kissable_ \--

His eyes raise quickly to back up to Sherlock's which are now crinkling with delight, his thoughts obvious and known, and that mouth, that kissable mouth smiles broader, lopsided, manages to whisper a single word. "Later." _Oh yes, the desire is mutual._

John can feel his heart race, settle. It is okay, and they are okay. They are moving forward, years of avoidance, of interest, of ... courtship perhaps. 

A smile, a nod, fond. "Soon," he answers.

Another promise.

Under the table, warm ankles find each other, meet, slide, settle.

From across the room, Angelo sees John's shoe slide off, a sock-covered foot slip intimately along the back of Sherlock's ankle. Two faint smirky grins, oblivious to anything but each other. Angelo raises a wine glass of his own in a silent, unnoticed salute.

++

A beautiful sight, happy tonight ...


	9. Part 4 of 5 - Warm and Cozy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snowman - at Harry and Clara's
> 
> Music - a brief excursion to listen to a boys choir
> 
> A Beautiful Sight - At Angelo's
> 
> Warm and Cozy
> 
> Peace

"We don't often have the flat to ourselves," Sherlock said with almost reverence as the cab dropped them kerbside at Baker Street.

There was a devilish gleam to John's expression as, hand on the door, he paused to look over. "Plans?"

A small impish grin of his own peered back. "Perhaps." Long fingers reached inside his coat collar, loosened his borrowed, striped scarf to remove it. The elegant, almost regal gesture caused several physical reactions as John watched - dry mouth, longing, an urge to broaden his chest then pull Sherlock against it. A yearning for friction. They were only a few steps from the top of the stairs when Sherlock paused, raised his head, alert. He sniffed. "Or perhaps not."

He bolted the final few steps and flung the - surprisingly - unlocked door open.

Sherlock was already snarling, "What the bloody hell do you want?" as John followed close on his heels through their door to see Mycroft.

Bloody Mycroft. He rose, angling his head arrogantly, shoulders squared as he looked down his nose at them. To John, he finally spoke, "Not quite the announcement I was expecting by the end of the week, Dr. Watson."

Wisely, John opted not to engage in the obviously brotherly spat. Again. He strode around Sherlock, tuning out for the moment anyway the fussing, the bitter complaining, and then Sherlock's stomp down the hall followed by a slamming of the bedroom door.

John sighed, attempting though unlikely to succeed at it in the presence of anyone with the surname Holmes, ignored Mycroft altogether as he poured himself a finger or two of his favourite Jameson. 

His ingrained good manners surfaced. "Care for --"

From down the hall, muffled, irritated, Sherlock howled, _"Don't offer him anything. He's not staying."_

John ignored that too. "-- a drink?"

"I think not."

"Why are you here?"

"To bring Rosie's Christmas gift." From inside his waistcoat pocket, he brought out a small box.

"I thought we'd actually see you on Christmas, you could deliver it personally." Though Mycroft held out the gift, John did not reach for it. "Not buying that reason."

"It's sad when I just pop round to check on my sibling, my only brother, whom I worry about constantly --"

"No, actually you keep an eye out to find new and more annoying ways to bully him. To pester him. _Constantly._ " John took a sip of his liquid courage. "Childish at best."

"Now, Dr. Watson, surely you --"

"Sod off," John said low, tired of the drama. "Really, you can leave that or not," he nodded at the wrapped, beribboned box, "but please, don't feel the need to linger."

"To offer my congratulations, of course."

"Congratulations for what exactly," John held his gaze steady, face to face. Because, best he knew it, though their intentions may have changed, nothing - absolutely nothing - had happened. Yet.

Mycroft withdrew his mobile, thumbed it open, handed it out. There were several photos from Angelo's, where they were depicted quite clearly, quite close, smiles and gazes more than friendly. Intimate even. There was a shot that even showed John's foot tucked behind Sherlock's, the next frame some conspiratorial smiles, them leaning close.

"Oh for gods sake. Does the average citizen have any idea that government surveillance is being misappropriated ...?"

John's question was cut off by the sound of a gunshot. From the bedroom. Mycroft startled, John tensed but outwardly didn't do much more than blink.

 _"Get out,_ " Sherlock growled from down the hall. _"John, get him out of here."_

John wondered at what might now be sporting a new bullet hole, and he eyed Sherlock's brother carefully. "He's warming up, then." John tilted his head sadly, as if resigned to something awful. "Think you might be next, if he finds you still here."

"Neither of you frighten me overmuch."

John stood up then, done. "Thanks for stopping by. Your presence was not in any of my plans for the evening. Your brother seems," and he hesitated as there was a feral sounding, worrisome laugh and the thumping of furniture moving, coming from the bedroom, "rather agitated in fact."

When Mycroft didn't move, John had only to take a few steps closer, his carriage and posture authoritative, displeased. "I just do hope you know what you're doing." He rose, adjusted his jacket slightly, tugging it into place. "If I've intruded ..."

"You know damn well that you did. Stop with your games and your ..."

The door opened down the hall, footsteps, the sound of a safety being let off of a pistol.

John glanced over to see Sherlock's shoulder, his eye, half his face peering around the corner, then the door to the flat closed, Mycroft disappearing with startling speed.

Sherlock grinned, held out his mobile, which was connected to a small, high powered speaker. He pressed another button on the phone, a gunshot noise came from the device, another press, the sound of the discharge of another rifle, then the safety release sound again. 

"You madman," John breathed. "I was wondering why there was very little reverb."

Sherlock set the mobile down, the smile becoming more relaxed. "Who cares. Not another word about him." He locked the door, checked the curtains, came to join John on the couch.

The smile John assumed was warm, crinkly. His hand came up without conscious decision to do so, sliding into Sherlock's curls, fingers strong, confident, reaching behind Sherlock's head to draw them closer. Baker Street, warm, cozy. The men, decidedly heating up.

Lips pressed close, moving, angling, settling. Then eventually, opening, receiving. _God yes._

Exhalations of relief, anticipation, swirled together as shoulders moved, angled, hands seeking and finding, buttons, zippers, exploring carefully as they only kissed there on the couch.

Finally, John pulled away, touched his forehead to Sherlock's angular cheekbone. "I think," he began slowly, "perhaps we'd be more comfortable elsewhere?"

"Yes."

Unrushed, unhurried, Sherlock stood, catching John's hand and drawing him along with him.

"Yes," John echoed.


	10. Part 5 of 5 - Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleepy kisses, new beginnings. (Thank you for the phrase.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little five-part section:
> 
> Snowman - at Harry and Clara's
> 
> Music - a brief excursion to listen to a boys choir
> 
> A Beautiful Sight - At Angelo's
> 
> Warm and Cozy - they return to Baker Street
> 
> Peace - morning cuddles

Faint light crept in from behind the curtain, brighter than usual, and John's remembrance of the previous day - and night - activities, changes, and location slowly focused. Baker Street, Sherlock's bedroom, Sherlock's bed. More specifically, between the sheets and kind of trapped under Sherlock's long leg thrown over his thigh. It was usually, John knew, still darker out when he normally woke up.

"Probably about nine."

Sherlock's words, from Sherlock's pillow, his face half obscured by a pillow. With a sleepy, slightly stiff hand from being tucked under him, he brushed a hand over his face, sat up to swing his feet to the floor. No pyjamas in sight. Not on him, not on the floor. A quick glance back at Sherlock - no pyjama sightings there either.

"No worries, I've already seen it." Accompanying his words was a faint chuckling rumble. "Seen you."

"I need coffee if you're going to be impertinent so early."

"I liked it, seeing it, and I want to see it again." Another rumble, Sherlock tried not to laugh in that sleepy, cuddly voice John wanted to listen to for ... well, for quite a long time. "And perhaps not just see, but ... other things as well."

"Loo," John said with an off-hand breath as he ambled to the doorway, naked.

"You're coming back?"

"Yes, if you want."

Sherlock's early morning gravelly voice went right to the center of John's gut, lower. "Yes, oh yes. I want."

John wasted little time with the bathroom and a toothbrush before returning to the welcoming embrace of a drowsy, languid Sherlock Holmes. The duvet, tucked over his shoulder, his fingers, chilly from washing elicited quite a shocked, delightful gasp from Sherlock when he approached, touched. The sleepy cuddles, John realised with a wistful longing, something he'd never known how badly he wanted that. And how wonderful, lying (and more) in Sherlock's long, wiry arms, it felt to finally be right there, close enough to listen to and feel Sherlock's heartbeat, the changes in muscle tone as he breathed.

It was sheer heaven. Peace on earth. Warm and right, comfortable on so many levels - emotional, physical, intimate. Still breathing in each other, skin warm, tingly, touching, they both drifted back off to sleep.

Later, they would wake, discuss changes in the flat, perhaps redecorating Rosie's newly single occupant bedroom into something she would love. They would rendezvous with Harry and Clara, perhaps let the proverbial cat out of the bag. Harry would tease but inwardly be satisfied on his behalf. Later, John would insist on more - Christmas baking, or shopping, or just enjoying the way London embraced the green, the red, the fairy lights. Inside the flat, togetherness. Later, John's dressing gown definitely needed to take up residence next to Sherlock's burgundy one on the back of the bedroom door.

Later, John would suggest Sherlock get in touch with Mycroft again, set some limits and boundaries.

Mrs. Hudson, given the moaning hours before and the _tap-tap-tap_ of what sounded like the handle of a broom from the flat beneath them, most certainly already knew.

But for now, peace. A recovery nap that would leave them time for perhaps another tussle in the sheets before responsibility summoned them from their haven.

Light from the window illuminated the room in soft gray hues. Sherlock's shoulder, tucked beneath John's chin, rippling slightly as the arm pulled him closer, the muscle fibres tensing, relaxing. The soft whoosh of breathing augmented through an ear pressed to a chest, the muffled thrum of blood flow, the beating of a heart that accelerated when John shifted his hand lower. He resisted the smile that wanted to reveal itself as he brought his hand back to safety, to Sherlock's ribs, his fingers splayed. Time for that later; for now, the familiar press of skin to skin as they savoured.

Peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have to say I probably won't be doing another multi-chapter prompt like this one, but if inspiration visits I might add to this with anything Christmas themed. RL this time of year is just a bit too challenging right now. But thanks for reading along.
> 
> There are two more roughly in the works, so I'm changing the total chapter count appropriately.
> 
> And again, hoping the fic prompt police overlook the infraction, haha.


	11. Silent Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might actually tie into the previous one, but is not dependent on it.

"You'll play it, won't you?" Rosie asked, a hand on Sherlock's arm. "Tonight, in the dark, after we read Twas the Night before Christmas, maybe a couple of candles?"

"Of course, if that's what you want." Sherlock tried to act bored, as if he hadn't already promised, as if he himself wasn't looking forward to it. They'd done it the last few years, and Rosie this year was thriving on tradition. On the little things they'd started, some without meaning to, and she was sweetly smiling up at him.

"Obviously," she said with a hint of Sherlockian attitude.

"Heaven help me," John breathed when he heard her tone, her delivery. Sherlock, eyes twinkling, turned to stare at him. They held each others gaze, as if there was a secret between them, the secret of where John slept and what they did under the covers. That they awoke occasionally, wondering if it was all a dream, only to reach out with a toe, a hand, warm and relaxed, a reassurance, a touch from across the bed, a _yes it's real_ and _yes we're still here._

"And dinner on Christmas still?" she turned toward John. "They're all still coming right?"

"I still have time to call in a favour, change the locks so Mycroft can't get in. We could paint the windows black so he doesn't know we're home."

"He has to come. I made him a present." Rosie either didn't pick up on the rancor or chose to ignore it.

"He'll be here," John assured. "Along with Molly and Greg, Mrs. Hudson."

"Aunt Harry and Aunt Clara are bringing some of the gingerbread cookies we made when I was there a couple days ago."

Their Christmas Eve was all planned, just the three of them. A walk about their neighbourhood to admire some of the better done lighting displays, the fairy lights in windows and around buildings, and in the few stores across the block. Hot chocolate, a Christmas movie yet to be determined by final voting after supper, leaving out cookies for Father Christmas, and then some music by candlelight, ending - by special request - with Silent Night on Sherlock's violin.

++

The dishes were done, new Christmas pyjamas donned (all three of them chosen by Rosie and quite whimsical much to Sherlock's chagrin, boldened colours, reindeer and such), and John clicked off the telly and the player. Rosie found the one specific plate - or actually Rosie had a meltdown about being unable to find the one specific plate while John located it in the top cabinet - and Sherlock set out cookies, which Rosie fussed about as she rearranged them.

Candlelight flickered softly over Rosie's excited, glowing face as Sherlock picked up and quietly, adroitly tuned his violin. The faint melodies began low, expressive and soulful, not too fast and full of emotion.

_Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright._

John and Sherlock watched Rosie's face light up from within, her face sweet and excited as the smile broadened, eyes all aglow. Naturally, unaware that she was being watched, her eyes drifted closed as she listened, her head completely atuned to the music and lost in appreciation. Her head tilted upward as she listened, the music and the notes a living, breathing, enveloping beautiful moment in their living room.

While Sherlock continued to play, he glanced over, caught John's eyes, and stayed there. The notes continued while they looked at each other. John, seated on the floor, an elbow close to where his daughter sat on the couch. His smile was fond, genuine, at rest. Sherlock stool, instrument in his grasp as an extension of his body. The tee shirt rose up slightly under his bowing arm, a faint strip of pale skin visible when he upbowed, the pyjama pants slung low over trim hips. His hair bobbed in time with the music, with each motion of his body, his arm, as he played.

The stanza climbed, woven together, notes sustained where they needed to, sweetly sliding into others, slowing down. The tempo settled into a more somber, relaxed, ethereal pace, each note pure and confident.

_Sleep in heavenly peace,_

_Sleep in heavenly peace._


	12. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh and special thanks for 1butterfly_grl1 for the inspiration for this last chapter and the closing lines of the piece!

"Home.” John breathed the word with contentment.

”Indeed.”

”Well, quite a day, yeah?" John asked as Rosie scampered ahead of them up the steps at 221b, key in hand to unlock the door as John and Sherlock paused long enough to gather the post, see that Mrs. Hudson's flat was not only dark but quiet.

"You could say that."

They'd finally made it official, a simple ceremony - not even that, a mere signing of papers actually - at the Register office, the twenty-eight day period passing with no fanfare or much of a countdown even. Rosie, at ten, had been witness, as had one of the receptionists. Other than posting the banns, they'd done nothing further to announce it. Rosie'd taken the opportunity to wear something new and attempt to finagle a new mobile out of the deal. John'd put the kibosh on that, but there was a new mobile for her under the tree that was waiting. It was Christmas in only a couple of days.

"Are you wishing we'd made more of a ceremony, or invited ...?" Sherlock began, but his question went unfinished when John cut him off.

"No. Perfect, just us. A quiet celebration, no fuss."

Sherlock pursed his lips, a small, satisfied gleam in his eye. With a glance upward, where Rosie had left the door open, he frowned as he considered something. 

"What is it?" John asked, recognising the face, the intrigue, the amusement starting.

"You should be prepared, John."

"What are you on about? Prepared for what?" He chuckled softly and then lowered his voice to speak in hushed tones. "As in ... later on, prepared? Well, I figured that would be customary, given we did just get married --"

"No. Not that." Sherlock cut him off quickly. A small, mirthful smile, a puff of resignation. "Never mind. After you then," he said, gesturing widely up the stairwell. “Husband.”

John was barely a foot through the door of their sitting room when he realised what Sherlock was talking about. Quietly standing about across from the doorway, amidst a small display of a few gifts and a spread of food, was an excitedly awaiting group of their friends.

The silence ended. "Surprise!" "Congratulations!" "Welcome home!" and "Finally!" greeted them. Rosie clapped her hands together, prancing over, excited and talking animatedly about keeping the secret and wasn't this grand!

John turned back to Sherlock with a grin. "This is what you meant, be prepared?"

A small nod, and he followed John into the room, met by Mrs. Hudson and Molly.

"Not very nice," Mrs. Hudson was already chastising them, "not to say anything to anyone. It would have been much more polite ..." she sniffed, and John shushed her with a hug. "Now stop that, young man," she continued as she pushed him away. "I can't be appeased that easily." A finger shook in his face before shifting to do the same to Sherlock. "And you, I expected more from you."

"Were you surprised daddy?" Rosie was asking, running interference from the mostly good-natured grousing.

"I was," John admitted. "Did you organise all this by yourself?" He looked around, seeing Greg and a few others from Scotland Yard. Angelo was there, too, as were a few of the staff from John's surgery. A few neighbours, Billy even. Mr. & Mrs. Holmes.

"I had help," she confessed. "Everyone brought food, well, mostly Angelo, and Mrs. Hudson decorated, plus the Christmas stuff already out. Molly baked your cake, and it all came together pretty well, once Uncle Mycroft asked me for the details."

Sherlock was already rolling his eyes. "I knew he would find out, I mean, it's public record." Mycroft was close to them, peripherally listening. "Too much to hope that you would have just left it alone."

Mycroft rocked back on his heels a bit, a strange, fond smile about his face. "Wanted to help celebrate with you. We've all been waiting a long time."

Well-wishers came closer then, offering hugs and congratulations. The Holmes parents: "Welcome to the family, though you've been part of it a long time now, John. But now officially."

Sherlock pushed a bottle of water into his hand as his mother continued a bit, kindly but without a break. Against the back of John's head, he whispered, "What was it you were saying about not wanting a fuss?"

Mrs. Holmes chuckled at the way Sherlock made a gesture as if to shoo them all out of the flat. “Stop it, Sherlock. Goodness me!" She batted at his shoulder, laughing though not missing the moment to give him a bit of grief too. "You've robbed us of the opportunity to show our support, to join you. What on earth were you thinking?"

"We were thinking that this was what we wanted." He pulled John closer to him, John's shoulder tucking under his. "But it seems that decision has been overruled." He shook his head at them, grinning despite the unrequested change in plans. "This is why you wanted to come right home afterward?" he asked Rosie.

She nodded. "We had a few contingency plans too."

Food was served, toasts were made, quite a bit of poking fun in all directions. Greg was one of the first to leave, needing to return to work, and others in the small gathering ended up not far behind, including family. It was not a terribly long time until it was just them.

"Presents!" Rosie said as soon as the food remnants had been properly put away.

++

John was shuffling through some of the cards after Rosie was in bed and Sherlock was in the shower. The gift from Angelo, a small, touch-sensitive adjustable lamp in the shape of a glowing candle. His accompanying card was something that caught John with a surprising burst of sentiment, a moment of pause, the card triggering fond memories from long ago. John had read, read again, would re-read it frequently perhaps.

_For Sherlock and John,_

_Finally!_

_A candle to adorn your table, for tonight and every night, from now on._

_Angelo, matchmaker extraordinaire, from the very beginning_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading along. Merry Christmas to all!


End file.
